


The Balm of Italian Food

by Primarina (PastelBrachypelma)



Category: Sly Cooper (Video Games)
Genre: Eating Disorder, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Food Issues, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Loss, Unconventional Families, bentley helps him bcs they’re brothers, sly works too hard and gets stressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27260305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelBrachypelma/pseuds/Primarina
Summary: Post-Sly 2.Bentley helps Sly through a relapse. It ends happily because I’m me.Mind the tags.
Relationships: Bentley & Sly Cooper & Murray
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	The Balm of Italian Food

Bentley hadn’t expected Sly to take losing Murray or his disability so hard, but he reflected that it showed how much Sly had grown and matured over the years, going from cocky and overconfident to empathetic and understanding. In a way, they’d all grown so much. And Bentley could give Murray time to deal with everything. 

Bentley knee Murray blamed himself in part due to ableism, and it was important that he get his head out of his ass on that one. But Bentley was also sure that Murray didn’t know his thoughts were ableist (that’s what happened when ableism was the norm, after all), and Bentley hadn’t been a saint before being disabled either. Also, a lot of Murray’s self worth was tied to his strength. His “failure,” as it were, had knocked his confidence down a few pegs. 

He’d rather Murray be in therapy...but he was sure Murray’s master was going to get to lessons about accountability. In the meantime…

It was around midnight. Bentley had stopped making improvements to his chair long enough to start to get hungry and went downstairs in search of food. Sly had been pickpocketing earlier that evening, taking advantage of the height of Paris’ tourism months, and they’d had food beforehand, so he expected there to be leftovers of some kind. Sly wasn’t a good cook, per se, but he could boil water, and was thusly able to make soup and pasta, even though both were usually under-salted. 

The turtle slammed his back against the chair, startled. Sly was on the couch, curled up nose-to-tail in a tight curl. Some French drama was on low volume on the TV. 

As quietly as he could, Bentley rolled his chair across the floor and went to turn off the TV when he saw two very important observations. The first was a tiny slip of paper just barely sticking out from between the light clasp of the raccoon’s fist. The second was that Sly’s tunic was loose. 

Sly lived in tight-fitting clothing. The less fabric was there to weigh him down, the better. And his tunic was a slightly stretching material that fit his body perfectly. Except...it didn’t. 

Had...had Sly lost weight?

Bentley felt anxiety climb up his throat. Sly was prone to obsessiveness. Also, when stressed, food was the last thing on his mind. The turtle carefully reached out, slipping the paper out from Sly’s hand. It was a testament to how exhausted Sly obviously was; the raccoon was a light sleeper, and a more of dust falling onto his shoulder would usually be enough to wake him, especially when it was dark outside due to his nocturnal design. 

“Shit,” Bentley murmured, glancing over the slip of paper. It was a series of numbers, ones Bentley knew well. Calories. 

Of course Sly had to diet. As the designated gymnast of the group, he had to be able to walk on wires, climb ropes, and scale buildings without being seen. Such things required a somewhat strict diet, though Sly often indulged once their heists were completed, especially since he couldn’t eat a full meal before performing most of his feats. Come to think of it, Bentley couldn’t remember the last time Sly had brought home pizza, or Chinese food, two of his favorite post-heist meals. 

Checking the fridge, Bentley groaned. No leftovers, except for a salad that looked half-eaten at best. Bentley looked at the numbers again and was troubled by their total. It’s true that Sly didn’t like math and wasn’t good at it, but simple addition was within his capabilities. 

“No,” he murmured. “I can’t lose you, too, Sly.” His forehead thunked against the cool refrigerator door. “Your idiotic calorie counting will make you pass out before long!”

Bentley wheeled back into the room, grateful that Soy was still fast asleep. Inches from his brother, Bentley could watch Sly’s breaths enter and leave his body. Up close, he looked so tired, and painfully thin. But he was alive. 

Bentley couldn’t regret the time he’d spent working on his chair, as it would prove invaluable, and it helped him accept his condition and learn ways to adapt to his body. But, now his friend needed him. And Bentley was nothing if not an obsessive planner. 

~

Bentley watched closely, chin resting on his hand, as Sly put on a facsimile of nonchalance. 

It wasn’t working. His tail was twitching too much, and his hands were shaking, 

It was just the two of them, and the bathroom scale, inches from Sly’s toes. This wouldn’t be the first time Bentley had seen Sly naked, but it was the first time in a long time that it was specifically for this purpose. 

“I can leave,” Bentley offered neutrally, “if that’s easier. I don’t have to be here.” 

Sly jerked his head towards him, his eyes for a moment scared, almost feral. But then, he relaxed, shaking his head and wringing his hands together. “No. No, it’s, um...I just, I need someone to…” 

“To be objective,” Bentley offered gently. 

“Yeah, that.” Sly laughed nervously, tugging at his hair. “Well. Here goes nothing!” And he took a deep, calming breath before stepping on the scale. 

Bentley had to admire Sly’s bravery in that moment. He’d gently brought up the fact that Sly hadn’t been cooking for himself, and was he eating enough? Their previous adventure had left them all drained, and grief could bring on a lack of appetite. 

Sly had dissed him out, as usual. “You found my paper, huh?”

Now here they were. 

Sly wasn’t looking at the scale. Bentley peered forward. “Okay,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “That’s not bad. We can work on that.” 

“Yeah?” Sly nervously glanced down at the numbers and let out a breathy laugh that didn’t sound as real as he thought it did. “Oh. Oh wow.” He was shaking again, his eyes glazing over, and Bentley recognized the first signs of a panic attack. 

“Sly? Sly! Easy, Sly,” Bentley kept a firm grip on Sly’s shoulder as he directed him. “Take a deep breath, in and out for me. Okay?” 

Sly nodded, shakily breathing along with Bentley. He was still hyperventilating a bit, so Bentley offered his other hand, which Sly took, burying his cold nose against the scent glands on his wrists, continuing to follow the breathing pattern until he calmed down. 

“All right,” Bentley said, patiently waiting for Sly to let go of him. “What’s your sleeping schedule like? Are you on diurnal or nocturnal time?”

“Diurnal, I think,” Sly said, beginning to shiver a little in the cold bathroom. “I’m...really tired right now, though.”

“That’s to be expected after a panic attack,” Bentley smiled reassuringly. Sly grinned shyly. “All right. Get dressed in something comfortable. Nothing form-fitting. I covered your mirror for you, but don’t be tempted to peak.”

Sly nodded, looking sheepish. “Thanks. Listen, I’m...im sorry…”

“Stop that,” Bentley said sharply. “It’s not a problem for me. It never was, and you know it.” The authoritative tone took, and Sly nodded. “Right. Go and do that, okay? You can freshen up if you want to.”

Sly nodded and Bentley left him alone, removing the scale from the bathroom. It was going to stay with him for a while. 

While Sly washed his face and changed, Bentley made sure all the mirrors were covered. There weren’t many, just the one by the door, mostly for checking out disguises last minute. He had some good news to share with Sly, which would hopefully let him relax a bit before the next big heist began. 

~  
VENICE, ITALY  
EARLY EVENING

“Venice...smells worse than I was expecting.” Sly wrinkled his nose. “Worse than week-old garbage.”

“I can close the window,” Bentley suggested. 

They were in their Ventian bolthole, a small room above a quiet bed and breakfast. It was about as inconspicuous, and cheap, as they could get on such short notice. 

“Nah,” Sly dismissed, grinning. “Part of the fun.” He took a bite of his protein bar. Bentley had insisted Sly eat fresh food instead of digging through garbage, promising junk food when he returned from police headquarters. Sly had just been worried about money, but Bentley pointed out that there were plenty of wealthy tourists who wouldn’t miss a few items getting lost here and there. 

It had been a few days, and Sly’s natural appetite had yet to kick in, but he ate when told to without asking about calories, which was a huge improvement. 

“You’re going to kill me,” Bentley began, pushing away from the computer and rubbing his eyes. 

“Can I expect turtle soup for supper?” Sly teased, smirking. 

Bentley snorted. “In your dreams.” Sly barked a laugh. “No, I’m just being repetitive. Check in with me?”

Sly groaned, dramatically flopping onto the table. “Arrgh, fine,” he complained good naturedly, resting his chin on his folded arms. “My energy levels are almost back to normal. I’m sleeping about as well as I ever do. I’m...still possibly too light, and my muscles ache when I do too much.” He yawned. “Still no appetite.”

“It’ll come back,” Bentley promised. “Go sleep for a bit. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go.” 

“‘K,” Sly stretched. “Sorry...heavy stuff’s still makin’ me drowsy.” 

“I don’t think it’s that,” Bentley replied. “I didn’t get much sleep on the plane, either.”

“Too many snorers,” Sly agreed.

~

“Thanks for comin’ early. Mama’s makin’ spaghetti tonight and I’m starvin. Imma gonna eat like three, no four, plates full!”

Internally, Sly’s curiosity was piqued. He and Bentley had yet to get authentic Italian food… “You must really like her cooking.”

“Mama Mia, I wanna be buried in her sauce!”

The dog guard walked off, and Sly…

Sly felt...different. It’s like he was tuning in to his body for the first time after being asleep for a week. All this running around the city, chasing tar barons and memorizing guard codes...and the cafes...were legit cafes! The smell of fresh coffee, bread, pastries...it was almost enough to drown out a Venice stink! 

Bentley alighting next to him shook him out of his thoughts. “Any problems with that guy?”

“Said he wanted to be buried in his...mom’s pasta sauce.” Sly replied slowly. 

“Yeah,” Bentley made a face. “That’s...that’s strange.” 

Sly let Bentley into the cafe and leaned against the door, feigning the sort of intimidating nonchalance he’d seen the guards take on. His kind drifted back to the pasta sauce, and then…

Sly’s stomach growled. 

The raccoon pressed his hand against his stomach, a bit surprised. It wasn’t like his stomach hadn’t growled before, but this was the first time since he’d relapsed that he didn’t feel some sort of sick sense of victory about it. 

“Sly? You there?”

Sly pressed the button on his comm. “Yeah, I read you. I just...can’t get it out of my head. Have you ever had food THAT good?!” His appetite was slowly returning, along with a genuine desire to eat. If he weren’t currently undercover in a mob boss’s territory, he’d be screaming in delight and celebrating like crazy. “Are we missing out on a universe of flavors here?”

“Not helpful, Sly,” Bentley replied curtly. 

“Sorry,” Sly swallowed, trying to beat back the hunger. They had one more cafe after this, and then something with fewer calories would be waiting for him. “Didn’t mean to distract you.”

But...

He hadn’t had a good carb in ages. He was starving for it. They were in Italy, for crying out loud! One of many cultures who loved to celebrate with a good meal. Certainly one of the best foods in the world. 

Sly’s hunger stayed with him. 

~

“Okay, you can let me out now, Sly.” 

Sly stepped away from the door, twitching his tail. His stomach growled insistently as he said, “Y’know, there must be a good restaurant around here.”

“Enough with the sauce!” Bentley chastised. “We’re in the middle of gang territory here! Danger, all around! This isn’t the time for…!” 

Sly could see the moment that Bentley realized what he was saying, and what it sounded like. Before he could begin to backtrack, Sly cut in, “You have a point.”

“Sly, I wasn’t…”

“We’ve got one more cafe to do.” Sly grinned, his eyes sparkling, “and then...we eat.”

Bentley looked like he would have cried if he weren’t under stress himself. “Oh thank God. I was so worried…”

“We can talk later,” Sly promised. Then, he chuckled, imitating the guard from before, “after I’ve-a eaten three, no four, plates of spaghetti!”

“I’ll find us a place that delivers,” Bentley promised. “I can place the order while you get into position. 

“Roger,” Sly saluted. “Let’s hurry up and get this done! I’m hungry.”

“Sure thing, pal,” Bentley beamed. 

~

It took Sly a plate and a half to feel a bit more like himself. Now, he felt tired in a familiarly satisfying “job well done” sort of way and not a “my body is too weak to stay awake right now” sort of way. 

Bentley didn’t even blink when he finished three more. 

There was garlic bread and gelato, too, and the two brothers shared it happily, glad to be one step closer to defeating Don Octavio, saving a microcosm of the universe, and getting their old friend back on the team. 

Sly scooped up the rest of his gelato and swallowed it without chewing, tipping his chair back with a deep, satisfied sigh. Bentley had gone a bit crazy with the ordering, and Sly couldn’t help but indulge when Bentley looked so relieved just to see him eating. Half of an anchovy pizza sat still in the box, the aroma intoxicating even though the raccoon was sure he’d explode if he ate another bite. 

Part of his mind was furiously trying to count calories, ready to admonish him for eating too much. Most of his mind was at peace, blissfully calm in the way that often comes with eating a large meal. He closed his eyes, crossing his arms over his firm, full belly. The sun was setting, but it was still warm on his fur. He felt calm. At ease. Peaceful. It was much better than feeling stressed, achy, and maybe just a bit cranky. 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Sly lazily opened his eyes, stretching with a grunt and smiling warmly at Bentley. “Sure. But it’s a wasted penny.”

“Meaning?”

“I feel...good. My mind’s quiet.” Sly yawned, and muffled a burp. “Might sleep for a week, though.”

“Eight hours should suffice,” Bentley teased. Then, he smiled just as warmly. “I’m glad.”

Sly random his fingers along the hem of his shirt, tail curling around his legs, suddenly shy. “Sorry that I...treated you differently after the accident. I was relapsing, but that’s no excuse.” He met Bentley’s eyes. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

Bentley, touched, wiped a tear from his eye. “I forgive you.”

“Good.” Sly smiled. “Let’s go to bed. We can beat the snorers!”

Bentley laughed. “I already installed a noise reducer in the wall. We’ll sleep fine.”

“Until Murray comes back, anyway,” Sly pointed out. 

Bentley shrugged. “I’m kinda used to his, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Sly agreed. “Sounds like home.”

And home, Sly decided as his meal began to pull him into a deep slumber, is much better when you’re full of comfort food.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand that was...that? What started as a piece about Bentley and ableism inevitably became about Sly’s eating disorder because...I project? I guess? 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked it! Comments and kudos make my day! And check me out on Twitch if you’ve got a minute! twitch.tv/sylviessylk


End file.
